


Happiness/Henceforth

by howterrifying



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21903346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howterrifying/pseuds/howterrifying
Summary: Sherlock escapes what he believes are the doldrums of Christmas, causing everyone to worry about his persistent state of unhappiness. However, he receives a very unexpected Christmas greeting and with it, the possibility of happiness.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 25
Kudos: 97





	Happiness/Henceforth

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally just a one-shot I'd written in 2014. But it seems it's inspired me to write a small continuation of it in 2019.

**Happiness**  
  
“I’m inviting Molly. So there,” Mary said.   
  
The Watsons had stopped over just a week shy of Christmas announcing that they were going to throw the annual Christmas party at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was delighted of course and had been left in charge of the catering. Sherlock, as usual, was none too pleased.   
  
“Why are we even making an event out of this—“   
“Because it _is_ an event, Sherlock, an actual event that we celebrate.” John interrupted.   
  
The detective rolled his eyes and got up from his seat. He reached for his violin and began playing some rather coarse-sounding arpeggios. The Watsons looked at each other and knew this meant the conversation was over. Nevertheless, Mary was determined to throw the party and ignored Sherlock’s bout of musical sulking.   
  
—   
  
It was a few days before the party and Mary had come over with some decorations as well as to stock up on drinks for the party.   
  
“Mary.” Sherlock greeted from his armchair.   
“Oh, hello,” she said, taking her bags to the kitchen. “Wasn’t expecting you to be in. No cases?”   
“Everyone’s in the _holiday mood,_ it seems. Even the criminal classes.” he muttered.   
  
From the kitchen, Mary laughed and carefully placed the newly purchased bottles of wine into the mini wine cooler.   
  
“Oh, by the way, Sherlock?” she said, still crouched on the floor arranging bottles.   
“Hmm?”   
“Molly’s not coming. She was planning on visiting the countryside for the holidays.”   
“Why are you telling me this?”   
“No reason,” Mary said, looking up suddenly. “No reason at all.”   
  
The detective stood up sharply and smoothed his jacket.   
  
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing changes.” he said as he made his way to his room.   
“You _are_ coming for the Christmas party, Sherlock?” Mary asked, popping her head up from where she was crouched.   
“I can’t _come_ to a party if it’s taking place where I live,” he answered curtly.   
“So you’ll be here?”   
  
There came no reply, and it worried Mary slightly. Quickly, she texted John.   
  
That night, when Mary returned home, John came up to her and sighed.   
  
“Your suspicions were right.” he said, helping her with her coat.   
“I don’t know if I want to hear it.” Mary said, actually wincing.   
“I managed to squeeze it out of him.” John said.   
“And?”   
“Since we mentioned the party, he’d gone and booked a plane ticket out of England” John said. “He leaves Christmas afternoon. Headed somewhere with ‘less Christmas’ he said.”   
“Well, it’s too late to cancel Christmas…”   
“We’re not cancelling it,” John said, giving his wife a comforting peck, “Mrs Hudson will be there, so will Greg and Mike. It’s going to be fine.”   
“I wish Molly was coming at least.” Mary said, genuinely crestfallen.   
“There’s always next year,” John assured her. “Come on, it’s late.”   
  
—   
  
It was midnight and Mary sat up in bed with a start.   
  
“What’s the matter?” John asked, reaching for the bedside lamp, “You okay?”   
“Do you have Mycroft’s number?” Mary asked.   
“Yes. And no. I have several, from the several times he’s had me hauled into his secret little lairs.”   
“Call him. Text him. Tell him about Sherlock leaving and if he can stop it.”   
“Why are you so desperate to have Sherlock over for Christmas?” John asked, sitting up and grimacing from the lamp.   
“He’s just been so… _unhappy_ , John.” Mary said, with a sigh.   
“He’s always unhappy…”   
“No, he’s always sulky or grumpy. It’s different from being _unhappy_.”   
“Why do you think that?” John asked, collapsing back into bed.   
“I don’t know.” Mary said, turning to her groggy husband, “Just a hunch, you know?”   
“Well, you know where my phone is, just search for any of the Mycrofts and you’ll have your man…”   
  
Mary leaned over to pop a kiss on her husband’s lips before slipping out of bed to get his phone.   
  
—   
  
“John. Is there an emergency?”   
“Wow, that was quick…it barely rang once.”   
“Mary?”   
“Hello, Mycroft, listen.”   
“Y-es.”   
“Sherlock is leaving England on Christmas afternoon.”   
“That’s not a problem…”   
“No, you see, we wanted to have our Christmas thing again at 221B, now that he’s, you know, neither dead nor on a suicide mission and well, things have been good recently…”   
“I have to agree. The lack of Moriarty is a marvellous definition of _good_.”   
“But he’s been so _unhappy_ , Mycroft.”   
“Has he been on any cases?”   
“Not recently, no.”   
“Has he been doing experiments at home?”   
“The kitchen’s been spotless. So, no.”   
“Has he been going to Bart’s then?”   
“No, I’ve been talking to Molly and it doesn’t seem like he has.”   
“Ah.”   
“What do you mean, _ah_?”   
“Mary, I doubt I can bring my stubborn little brother back to England. Not without good reason anyway.”   
“But Mycroft—“   
“But what I _can_ do, is address this issue of unhappiness you speak of.”   
“So you agree with me that he’s unhappy?”   
“From what you’ve told me, Mary, he seems positively desolated.”   
  
—   
  
When Sherlock Holmes reached Heathrow he heaved a small sigh of relief to himself. He was glad to have managed to sneak out with his bags without Mrs Hudson noticing. Scanning the airport, he was surprised that the Watsons had not come to cause a din and try to bring him home. Nevertheless, he was grateful they finally left him alone. After all, alone was ultimately what protected him. Alone was what he needed.   
  
He had booked himself a first-class ticket out of London. Sherlock was not a man to indulge in such luxuries but it was Christmas, after all. He sank gratefully into his comfortable seat and enjoyed the absolute serenity of what seemed like a rather empty first-class cabin. Sherlock shut his eyes and folded his arms across his chest as he finally allowed himself to relax.   
  
Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock never stopped observing his surroundings. His ears and his nose were still alert and active, piecing together the environment from what he could not see. It was still very quiet, but he could hear the muffled din of the bulk of passengers boarding in the economy cabins downstairs. There was the faint scent of champagne being poured as the first-class cabin crew prepared the welcome cocktails before take-off.   
  
He was suddenly drawn to a pair of voices, one voice seemed troubled, perplexed. It was a first-class cabin crew talking to a passenger. The passenger seemed lost, distraught and very, very unsure.   
  
“I showed them my ticket and they brought me here…” came the voice, “I’m just…not sure if it’s the right place.”   
“Indeed you are, Ma’am,” came the cheery voice of the cabin attendant. “Allow me to show you to your seat…”   
“No, you don’t understand, why am I in first-class…”   
“Well, you’re holding the correct ticket, Ma’am.”   
“But it has to be a mistake…” the voice protested.   
“Might I take a closer look then, Ma’am?” asked the attendant politely.   
“Please.” she replied. Her voice sounded strained and a little worn out.   
“From what I can see, Ms Hooper, you’re definitely in the right place.”   
  
Sherlock’s eyes sprung open and he shot out of his seat. When he stood up, he caught the attention of the cabin crew and the distraught passenger.   
  
“Molly?” he uttered, puzzled.   
“Oh.” she whispered.   
  
Molly turned to the cabin attendant, whose turn it was to be perplexed.   
  
“It’s all right,” Molly said with a smile, “I am in the right place. Thank you.”   
“Of course, Ma’am.” the attendant said, with a polite nod, “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”   
  
Molly walked over to the seat beside Sherlock and checked her ticket.   
  
“Yes. This is my seat.” she muttered to herself.   
  
It was Molly’s turn to sink gratefully into the luxurious first-class seat. Sherlock followed suit and sat when she did.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked softly. “Where this flight is taking us is hardly the English countryside.”   
  
Molly brought a hand up to her face and laughed quietly into it.   
  
“Your brother said you needed help urgently.” she said at last. “He told me to get on this flight and the rest of it would be explained to me.”   
“And you just believed him?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.   
“Mycroft saves England on a daily basis. He’s saved me,” she said, reminiscing, “And most of all, he’s always saved _you_. I will always believe him.”   
“You flatter him.” Sherlock remarked stiffly.   
“I don’t,” she said firmly, “And you know it.”   
  
Sherlock sat back in his seat and sighed. He shut his eyes and silently contemplated his situation.   
  
“Do you not want me here?”   
  
Her voice was sudden, but gentle, for she had whispered it. It startled him, and his eyes popped open.   
  
“I can always get off the plane, there’s still time.” she said quietly, “There’s no real emergency, obviously. I don’t know why he sent me here in the first—“   
  
She was interrupted when Sherlock placed a hand over hers, silencing her as she stared at him in surprise.   
  
“You’re right.” he said quietly.   
“What about?”   
“My brother.”   
“O-kay.”   
“He always saves me.”   
“I’m glad you can say that.” she remarked with a gentle smile.   
  
The detective turned to properly look at Molly. Her smile was lovely and he could not help but reciprocate it.   
  
“So, what’s he saving you from this time?” she asked, suddenly conscious of the fact that their hands were touching.   
“Me, and my stupidity.” he answered. His honesty surprised Molly.   
“You’re not st—“   
“Trust me, Molly,” he said with a laugh, “I am.”   
“You’ll have to explain that one to me.”   
“I will,” he said.   
  
Sherlock looked down at his hand that touched hers. Slowly, he manoeuvred their fingers such that he was now holding her hand properly. There was a surge in Molly’s pulse but he never felt it, not when he was surprised by the rush of his own.   
  
“I hope you’re a fan of warm weather,” he said, settling into his seat but not once letting go of her hand.   
“I’m certainly prepared for it. Your brother had a bag packed for me.”   
“Hmm, he’s good, isn’t he?”   
“He is.”   
  
When Molly looked at her hand held firmly by the detective who sat beside her, there was a wave of warmth in her chest. He looked lovely, a little tired, but lovely.   
  
“I suppose I should send him a card. Remind me, won’t you? When we touch down.”   
“Of course. But…a card? Whatever for?” Molly asked, puzzled.   
  
Sherlock laughed softly to himself before bringing Molly’s hand up to his lips and giving it a kiss. She let out a little gasp, which made amused the detective.   
  
“It’s only right to thank him, I suppose.” Sherlock said.   
“For?”   
  
He turned to look at her, running his thumb over her delicate wrists and took in the comforting sight of her soft, brown eyes.   
  
“For a most marvellous Christmas present.” he murmured, “And what looks to be a very happy new year.”  
  


* * *

**Henceforth**

Molly had never been more grateful for the flight safety demonstration that was happening right now as their flight prepared for take-off. Minutes before it had begun Molly had uncovered the ‘emergency’ Mycroft had sent her to attend to. Not only had she been presented with what was clearly _not_ an emergency, she had been presented with the fact that Sherlock had wanted her to join him on his flight out of London. It was a new situation, and rather awkward. 

She looked down at her hand that remained in his and would have been rather delighted had she not been so perplexed.

“Weren’t you invited to the Watson’s Christmas do then?” she asked, trying to steer the subject away from the fact that Sherlock Holmes might have just let slip his sentiments for her.  
“I can’t be invited to an event happening in my own home…” Sherlock replied in his usual acerbic manner.  
“Don’t be difficult, Sherlock,” Molly chided. “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock let out a sharp sigh and sat a little straighter, but not without releasing her hand.

“Christmas is dull…” he began again.  
“Sherlock _Holmes_ ,” Molly reinforced.  
“It _is_ dull,” he persisted. “But if you think I’m on this flight out of London because of a Christmas do, then you’re wrong.”  
“Tell me then,” continued Molly, “Why are we going where we’re going?”

They were interrupted by a flight attendant who offered a selection of beverages and asked if there was anything they needed.

“Carry on,” Molly said, slipping her hand out of his so she could carefully sip the hot green tea she had asked for.

Sherlock blinked at the sharp removal of her hand, but relaxed when he saw what she had needed her hand for. He smirked to himself and looked down at his own pitch black coffee and gave it a swirl.

“I see you’re no longer engaged,” said Sherlock, surprising Molly at what seemed a sharp change of topic.  
“Sherlock, I’ve not been engaged for a long time,” Molly answered, “Surely you knew that.”  
“I did, but it was hard to forget that you _had_ been engaged.”  
“What are you on about?”

Sherlock took a sharp breath in and looked back down at his coffee. How was he to articulate what he himself could not make sense of? It was akin to having static in his head but it worried him more that his heart seemed the more troubled area.

“When was the last time I’d been to Bart’s?” he turned to asked Molly.   
“I don’t know, Sherlock,” said Molly with a laugh, “A while ago, I suppose.”  
“I shan’t bore you with the details but I know _exactly_ when I stopped going to Bart’s.”

He did not seem like he was going to continue, but Molly could not think of anything to say either. To her relief, he took a slow sip of his coffee and then turned to her again.

“Once I’d stopped,” he continued, “It felt too difficult to go back. Bart’s was… _us._ And then suddenly it wasn’t any longer.”

Molly could only stare at him with a mix of incredulousness and amusement. Bart’s was always _them_. Even when she had been with Tom, and in spite of how wrong she knew it had felt, Bart’s was still always _them_.

“Is that why your brother sent me to you?” Molly said, smirking, “Because you wouldn’t come to me?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look up at her, mortified that he had been so easy to read, yet relieved that his brother had done so.

“Yes,” he blurted out. Why was this starting to feel like open-heart surgery?

His expression amused Molly and she let out a chuckle. Carefully, she placed her warm tea in its holder and reached over to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. In response, Sherlock merely stared at her, his eyes blinking rapidly which caused Molly to grin at him as she watched him slowly short-circuit.

“I think I should like to send Mycroft a card too,” said Molly with a grin as she turned to settle back into her seat.  
“Whatever for?” asked Sherlock, putting his coffee down as he turned to face her.  
“Because where we’re going is _much_ nicer than the English countryside…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he stared at her quizzically.

“And also because you’re _much_ nicer than Tom,” she added with a sly smile.

It was Sherlock’s turn to let out a laugh as he sank back into his seat, finally feeling a sort of relief in his chest he did not realise he had needed.

“How much nicer?” he asked, turning his head toward her.  
“Infinitely,” Molly replied, smiling.  
“In that case, try not to get engaged again,” he continued, reaching for her hand.

This time, she was the one who lifted his hand to her lips and gently kissed it.

“I’ll try not to,” Molly remarked, eyeing him with amusement.  
“That’s not very reassuring,” Sherlock replied, equally amused.   
“Well, let’s see how things are when we arrive, shall we?” said Molly.  
“Yes, let’s.”

They sat in a far more comfortable silence than before, their hands feeling more and more at ease intertwined with each other. Neither of them could be sure of what this all meant, but at least it meant a somewhat wonderful Christmas in store for them. And if it all went well from here on, then perhaps it just might stay that way.  
  
 **END**


End file.
